


Such a Temptation

by Nell65



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Het, I'm not kidding, Very Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6035113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nell65/pseuds/Nell65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke woke up abruptly, immediately hyper-conscious of the fact that she was in a stranger’s bed in a stranger’s city. That she was buck naked in a stranger’s bed in a stranger’s city, with a pounding hangover and fuzz on her tongue.</p><p>(As always - my thanks to Jeanie205 for the encouragement, and for the beta!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such a Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> There was this ask on tumblr. One of those lists of random questions and the invite, send me a pairing, I'll tell you who does what. But I have almost no followers, and only half (or fewer) of the followers I do have are fans of The 100. But the questions made me laugh, so I decided to use them as a fic prompt instead. The modern setting was required by the prompt questions. I got all but one into the story. (That one was 'what song plays at their wedding.' The fun of this pair is that there is not a wedding, and there will never be a wedding. So I left that one out.) The list is at the bottom of the fic, if you're curious.
> 
> Oh. And it turned into porn. Because of course it did.

Clarke woke up abruptly, immediately hyper-conscious of the fact that she was in a stranger’s bed in a stranger’s city. That she was buck naked in a stranger’s bed in a stranger’s city, with a pounding hangover and fuzz on her tongue.

The stranger was gone, but the sheets and blankets she was bundled in smelled of him. Smelled of sex. And of stale cheap beer and day-old cigarette smoke and fried food. Or possibly, that was her hair. She sniffed tentatively. It was mostly her hair. But the vile, sweetly acrid odor had transferred to the sheets.

The pillow under her head was all wrong, too fluffy and soft. And also stank of old bar.

Her thighs were achy and faintly sticky, and in between the waves of pain in her head, she was definitely aware that she’d been good and thoroughly fucked. A little rough, but not too much. Biting but no visible bruises. She hoped. 

Scattered images of the night before came filtering back. 

The overpriced conference banquet with the overly-sauced entrée. The keynote lecture delivered by the big name researcher at the fancy conference, the reason she and several friends from medical school had flown into Minneapolis. The question and answer session afterward, full of people giving self-serving speeches in the form of fake questions they didn’t want the answer to. The better conversations among attendees about their own work that had flowed over into the hotel bar. 

The younger crowd had eventually moved on to another much more fun and hip and smokier bar. After that, down mostly to the med students and post-docs now, they had gone to the bar with the live music. Finally, the hard partying holdouts, including herself, had arrived at the bar with the pool tables, a dim smoky pool hall in the old model. Possibly _was_ the old model. And there she had met the guy with the big smile and the deep voice and the long hair and the leather jacket. The guy who stripped down really, really well. Like, art model well. 

Oh, God. 

She had promised herself she was not going to do this again. She had promised her best friend, too.

But here she was. Perhaps she could convince herself, and Raven when she saw her again, that this didn’t count since she was away from home.

She rolled over and, still wrapped in the blankets, pushed herself up and wondered where in the hell her phone had vanished to and what time it was.

The stranger walked back into his bedroom. In worn jeans riding low and a faded, half buttoned shirt, his long hair and very short beard still damp from a shower, he was just as good-looking this morning as he’d been the night before. This was at once reassuring and horrifying. Getting out of here was going to be harder than she wanted it to be.

“You’re a blanket thief,” he informed her.

“I can’t sleep if I’m cold,” she replied, feeling both defensive and as though she’d been a poor guest.

He nodded, acknowledging if not validating her response, and walked over to set a full glass of water and a bottle of over-the-counter pain meds on the night table next to her. “You’ll probably want this.”

She did. Oh, how she did. After she gulped the water down in nearly one swallow, remembering only just in time to save some to toss back with the pills, she wiped the back of her mouth with her hand and said, “Thanks.”

He’d hooked his thumbs on his pockets and was watching her with a vaguely amused smile. “You’re welcome.”

Aware that he would probably like her to leave now, she looked around on the floor for her clothes. All she could see were her jeans, tossed on a chair beside her boots.

“Um,” she said, “I don’t see my clothes? Or my phone?”

“Your clothes are in the dryer. Cold water wash and medium heat. I know it’s not great for the fabrics, but they stank up the whole apartment. So did mine. Sheets go next, as soon as you get your ass out of my bed.”

“Um. Thanks?”

He turned and rifled through a drawer. “Here,” he tossed her a shirt and a pair of socks. “You can wear these while you wait. Should be dry soon. Bathroom is behind you. There’s a clean towel on the counter if you want it.”

Then he left, pulling the door closed behind him.

Since she had some time to kill while she waited for her clothes – a gesture both thoughtful and incredibly weird and highhanded – and she didn’t really feel like making conversation with a stranger, Clarke helped herself to his good quality shampoo and conditioner and basked in the steamy heat of his shower, rehydrating from the outside in.

Once she was out of the shower she took stock of his bathroom. It was cluttered, but clean. No gross buildup of dust and hair and gunk in the corners or around the toilet. No dried toothpaste in the sink. Also, no extra toothbrush anywhere. 

Somehow that took her by surprise. She’d thought for sure that he was the type to keep spare toothbrushes around for surprise overnight guests. She used her finger and the toothpaste and did the best she could to scrape away the remnants of a long night.

True to his promise, he’d stripped his bed and remade it with fresh sheets while she was in the bathroom, and he’d left her purse on the quilt for her to find. Her phone informed her that it was nearly noon. And that she had thirteen texts and messages from Raven. She fired off a quick response, “I’m fine. Alive and well. Will find you later.”

Then she muted the phone and stuffed it back in her bag. She’d deal with the inevitable flood of questions when she had answers.

Wearing his shirt, a heavy waffle-weave Henley, and socks and her own jeans commando-style, she padded out into the main room. 

“Hey,” she said to his profile. “Thanks for the shirt.”

He was sitting at the table reading a tablet, a coffee cup at his elbow, his hair pushed behind one ear. He looked up. She noticed for the first time how blue his eyes were. “Your clothes should be done in a few more minutes,” he said.

She was acutely aware of overstaying her welcome. “Yeah. Thanks. Or,” she shrugged, “sorry?”

His sudden grin was a relief. “Neither. You’re probably pissed I washed your lingerie. But I’m not kidding. Everything stank like Jimmy’s and it was making my headache worse. I’ve got our jackets hanging outside the kitchen window. I usually avoid the place because the stink the next day is so bad, but my friends wanted to go play pool, so…” he fell silent and lifted his shoulder in a completely uncommunicative shrug.

There was an awkward pause. The kind where he might have said something like, “but I’m glad I did because I met you,” but he did not. 

So Clarke said, “It is kind of weird. You washing my clothes uninvited.”

This only increased the awkwardness. Clarke cast her glance around the room, avoiding his eyes, because Jimmy’s was definitely the bar where he had picked her up, over a game of pool where he’d gleefully kicked her ass. She remembered, all too clearly, that she’d ended up staking herself, in the most pathetic come-on since the history of ever. Or, maybe, since it had obviously worked, it hadn't been THE most pathetic ever.

God, but she was such a sucker for men with deep voices or long hair. Both together, which he had in spades, hair and voice, had proven to be an irresistible combination when she was way too drunk to bother with controling her own libido. And her stupid impulsive id had promised her that what happened out of town would stay out of town. Pinky swear. 

She was such an idiot.

She noticed a smashed ceramic lamp, the larger pieces collected on the coffee table, the clean lines of the large shade mangled by the big dent in the side. “Ouch,” she said. “Did I do that?”

They’d nearly fucked in the cab, she remembered. Her humping on his leg, him holding her palm over his impressive erection with one hand while his other tangled in her hair and they made out like they were both about to head off to war. He’d had his hands in her pants in the elevator, and finished bringing her off with her back against the door while she cried and bucked and clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the soft leather of his jacket, an unconscious mimicry of his fingers burried in her pussy. Her back against the outside of his door, she remembered. He'd finger fucked her in the public hallway. Where anyone could have come across them. Unlikely though that was at whatever hell o’clock in the morning it had been.

They’d stumbled through the doorway once he finally dragged his keys out of his pocket, and there had definitely been some banging into furniture then. She didn’t remember a lamp breaking, but she’d been entirely focused on trying to get him out of his clothes at the time. Starting with the buttery smoothness of his jacket.

She definitely remembered her first eyeful of naked chest. It was glorious. If he hadn’t picked her up over his shoulder, carried her to his bedroom, and tossed her onto his bed, she would have dragged him to the ground and fucked him bare-assed on the wooden floor.

And she finally remembered the crash when her heel had caught the lampshade, and cringed.

“I think it was a ‘we’ thing,” he said generously. 

She thought that was really very nice of him. But she still couldn’t meet his eyes. She kept looking about the room instead. His living area was like his bedroom and bathroom. Clean but cluttered.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “I’m sorry but I don’t have anything to offer you for breakfast. Tomorrow is my errand day. So my shelves are pretty empty. Unless you’d like old crackers and canned tomato basil soup? Or canned tuna? Or frozen pizza bagels?”

Her stomach heaved at the thought. “No. Thanks, though.”

“Yeah,” his faint chuckle was rueful. “I didn’t think any of that sounded good either.” 

This was the moment, Clarke knew, when, according to hookup etiquette, someone should mention brunch. She really didn’t want brunch, to make uncomfortable conversation for an hour with a stranger over food too rich and overpriced to be easily digested while hung over.

She forced herself to look at him again, and discovered that he was watching her. “I, uh,” she cleared her throat and tried again, “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as my clothes are ready.”

“I can give you ride wherever you need to go,” he offered. “On my way to the grocery store.” His smile was genuine enough and eased at least some of her discomfort.

“Thanks. I’m at the Hilton. Downtown, by the river.”

“A conference?”

“Yeah.”

The dryer beeped just then, and he rose to retrieve her clothes. “Pretty things,” he said as he handed them to her. 

She thought the compliment was overreaching. Her bra and panties were solid black, and more sensible than sexy. When you wore the generous cup sizes that she did, nothing at Victoria’s Secret or similar ever fit properly. You ended up shopping at Macy’s with your mom. Narrowing her eyes at him, she said, “Last night you complained about the excessive number of hooks.”

That memory was now quite clear.

“I didn’t yet fully appreciate all the work that they do,” he said, his infectious grin firmly in place, his gaze slipping down to her tits before he dragged them back up to her face again. “You’ve got an impressive rack.”

Clarke didn’t know quite where to look or how to feel. She did have an impressive rack. Which was almost more trouble than it was worth most of the time. 

“Thanks,” she said as dryly as she could. “I better go get them holstered up so you can drive me back to my hotel.”

“Or,” he said, “you could take your shirt off and let me play with them for a while.”

Clarke had read the phrase, ‘bolt of lust’ in a number of novels. But she had never felt one so acutely in her life. Bam. Straight to her bits and then sizzling up nerves all over her whole damn body. 

She met his eyes. She reached for the hem of her shirt (his shirt) and said, “Okay.”

He caught the fabric before she had it halfway over her head, pulling it free and tossing it onto the couch. This allowed her to open the few buttons he’d fastened on his own shirt and push it off his shoulders. He finished shrugging out of it seconds later, flinging it after the other one. As soon as his hands were empty, he reached for her tits. Weighing them in his strong, square hands, rolling them, pressing them, stroking them. 

He hadn’t even touched her nipples and she was already shaking.

She reached for him, too, running her hands along his torso, mirroring his actions along the lines of his chest, stroking along the ridges of his abs, feeling for the hard jut of his obliques. The man took very good care of himself.

When she raised her eyes to his, he bent his head to kiss her. His beard was softer than she’d expected, she still remembered being surprised by this last night, and it was no different today. His kisses moved quickly from gentle to aggressive, but Clarke didn’t mind this one bit. She loved aggressive kissing, giving and receiving. 

He started walking her backward, his hands still on her tits, his mouth on hers, guiding her until her knees hit the edge of his bed and she started to tumble backwards. He caught her, and eased her down. Then he quickly opened her jeans. She raised her hips and shoved them down over her ass while he reached for the ankles, pulling them off in a smooth series of jerks once she’d raised her feet. 

After that he dropped his jeans to the floor and crawled over her. His hands and mouth were everywhere on her body, from her forehead to her toes, but after she nearly kicked him because her reflexes were wired too tight, he left her feet alone.

He always returned to her tits, hands and lips and teeth and tongue, and she shivered and moaned until her impatience got the better of her. She pushed him over onto his back and reached for his rigid cock, slipping down the mattress until she could fit her mouth over him, swirling her tongue around the tip, sucking him in until she had him at the top of her throat, her lips half-way down his length. Then she slowly pulled up and off, sucking as hard as she could the whole way.

When she looked up at him, his eyes were closed, his arms were flung wide, his back was arched, and his hair was spread out all over the pillow. She realized it was a very good look on him.

But she preferred to give head without giving herself a crick in her neck or a pull in the small of her back.

“Slide down,” she said, backing up. “Sit at the edge of the bed.”

She pulled a pillow along with her for her knees, and once he was settled she went back to work, glancing up now and again to admire just how wrecked he looked, supporting his weight on his arms, his head thrown back, his abs rigid with the effort of holding himself steady and his hips raised ever so slightly. He was watching her under his half-closed eyelids, his mouth twisting as his dick got heavier.

When she realized he was close, she looked up and offered, “Would you like to come on my tits?”

His eyelids actually fluttered closed and his voice was raspier than ever, but he managed to say, “Yes. Yes, I would.”

His eyes were open when he did, just a minute or two later. His jizz was hot on her skin, heavy and white, long thin spurts like fancy icing on a cake. 

When he was finished, she grinned up at him. “So. You’re a tits man.”

“Oh, yeah,” he grinned back. “I am. I mean, I like everything, ass, legs, pussy. But I especially like tits. Come here,” he scooted backwards. “I want to touch you again.”

She nodded, and stood up, looking around for some tissue. But he stopped her. “No. Let me.”

What he meant, she discovered, was he wanted to play. He drew circles and stars, making her laugh, until he finally massaged it all into her flesh. Then he bent his head close, drawing his nose along her skin, before looking back up at her. “Now you smell like me.”

He sounded so pleased with himself that she started to laugh again. 

“What?” he asked.

“I’ve never met a guy who paid so much attention to smell,” she said.

“Or, at least, not one who told you.”

She hadn’t decided how to feel about that answer when he kissed her again. And again, moving down her body until he’d settled between her legs and demonstrated that he was, indeed, a fan of pussy as well. 

Her orgasm wasn’t earth-shaking, but it was solid enough that when she realized he was hard again, it was easy to urge him onto his back so she could take top, sliding down on his cock with an easy twist of her pelvis. A few adjustments and a few pillows later, he was meeting her rocking hips with his own slow thrusts, his hands gripping her thighs while she played with her own tits this time, almost more turned on by how much he liked watching her than by anything he was doing. Then, to her surprise, she felt another orgasm building, his excitement fueling her own. And then his fingers, working at her clit, pushed her higher.

By the time his second orgasm hit she was so fully aroused, sailing right along the crest, sure she was going to tip over soon, it was all she could do not to make a disappointed sound when he stopped moving, arching up as he ejaculated deep inside her.

As soon as he was done, he pulled her down beside him and finished the job with his fingers. This time she came strongly enough, shaking hard from head to toe, he was able to pull out several more aftershocks, until she had to grab for his wrist and tug his fingers away.

Then she dropped her hand onto the bed and decided it would be okay if she didn’t move at all for the next little while. She was almost asleep before he covered her with a blanket.

The next time she woke up, it was slow and comfortable, but her inner thighs were once again sticky and sore. She was curled into a pile of blankets, this time smelling of fresh laundry soap, while her stranger snored quietly beside her, naked as the day he was born. Moving by inches, she crept out of her nest and made her way to the bathroom, and then to her purse, before tiptoeing out to the living room. 

It was now three o’clock in the afternoon and there were five more messages from Raven. 

“Just how hot is this person??”

“Please tell me you are still alive.”

“You know our flight home leaves at 7am, right?”

“Hello????”

“Is this thing on?”

Clarke grimaced. Whenever Raven pulled this kind of stunt, Clarke just waited patiently for the details, because Raven firmly believed that a good stranger fuck could cure most ills. That she came home and cried afterward was, she swore, integral to the healing process, part and parcel of the emotional release. And in any case, Raven was very good about never hooking up with the same dude twice.

It was Clarke who had the very bad habit of confusing stranger fucking with relationship building. Thus the now broken promise. But, she assured herself, _out-of-town_ stranger fucking really was totally different. Raven would totally agree. Totally. 

“Will be back at hotel soon,” Clarke typed.

To her surprise, the new text bubble appeared almost immediately.

“Girl!! WTF????””

Clarke bit at her lip as she smirked at the phone. “Hot. Very hot,” she typed.

Raven’s reply popped up. “Get your ass back here, and spill.”

“Soon.”

Clarke stuffed the phone back in her bag and realized she was starving. Tomato soup sounded like way too much trouble, but she thought she could handle a frozen pizza bagel. Pulling on her stranger’s shirt she decided she really needed to figure out how to remember his first name, so she could stop thinking of him as ‘my stranger fuck.’ 

She found the frozen bagels and tossed one in his microwave, still puzzling over the question of his name. It was not Rob or Ron or Rick or Rod or Rand, or John or Jim, she was almost certain, but it was something really, really fucking close to that. The only thing that made it slightly less awful was he hadn’t used her name either, which meant he was probably drawing as big a blank as she was.

A weird popping noise drew her attention back to the microwave and she saw to her horror that the pizza bagel had caught on fire. Fucking on FIRE!

She slammed her hand on the door release, and was greeted by a quick gust of flame as oxygen rushed back in. “Holy fuck!” she cried, seizing the little paper tray and flinging the melted, charred mess into the sink and turning on the faucet to drench the last of the smoke.

“Clarke?” her stranger’s voice filled the room behind her. “What the hell are you doing to my kitchen?”

“Um,” she turned to face him, her embarrassment only slightly undercut by his impressive nudity. “Catching a pizza bagel on fire? In your microwave?”

His eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Is that a question?” 

She felt very small and very stupid. “No.”

“How did you do that?” Now he merely sounded incredulous.

“I don’t know?” she wailed apologetically. “I was thinking about something else, and I must have used the wrong setting? I’m so sorry!”

He was investigating the mess in his sink. His very fine, very bare ass filled her vision and wiped her brain clean.

“You put it in the microwave still in it’s plastic wrapping,” he said, looking back up at her. “The wrapping melted and caught fire.”

“Oh.” Now she could feel the heat on her face. “I was distracted, trying to remember something.”

“Or really hungry?” he offered, a slow smile starting to tug at his mouth.

“Both, maybe?” 

He pulled open the garbage and chucked in the sad remains of the pizza bagel. “What were you trying to remember?”

Clarke sighed. “Your name.”

“Roan,” he said, his smile growing wider. “My name is Roan.”

“It’s really embarrassing that you remembered my name.”

“I didn’t. I rifled through your purse while you were asleep. I read it on your IDs. Clarke Griffin, twenty-six, medical student at Harvard University. Very impressive.” He sketched a quick bow with his head.

“I think you need to feed me, Roan,” Clarke said, torn between annoyance at the invasion of her bag, and admiration for his willingness to do the obvious. It was a surprisingly rare quality.

“Get dressed,” he said. “We’ll get some food on the way back to your hotel.”

Food was a local soup and salad place, close enough to walk to, quiet in the midafternoon lull. The drive back downtown in his battered-looking jeep was delayed by stops and starts in the growing evening traffic. 

Both the meal and the drive were full of standard get-to-know-you chatter. He was funny and charming, if long on irony and dry humor. She discovered she could make him laugh by describing all the silly absurdities of a large research conference, from pompous senior professors to first year med students whose nerves were exceeded only by their ambition. He teased her about her modesty, once he learned she was enrolled at Harvard Medical School as a combined PhD and MD student. 

She learned he had a law degree from Columbia, but had hated being a lawyer and quit and moved back to Minnesota, crashing and burning his marriage on the way out. Now, at thirty-four, he was doing some sort of vague consulting in the marketing world and living mostly alone. 

“Here,” he said, pulling out his wallet and offering her one of his business cards. “I know it doesn’t make much difference now, but I am who I say I am. You can even look me up in the New York and Minnesota Bar Associations. I’m still paid-up and a member in good standing in both places.” He shrugged and rolled his eyes somewhat self-consciously. “Being an attorney impresses credulous marketing types. Also balances out the hair.”

Clarke tucked his card safely into her purse, and told herself it didn’t matter because obviously this was just a stranger hookup in a strange town and it was all about hot sex and nothing more. But it was nice that he wanted her to know he was a real person.

In the process of the get-to-know-you chatter, she also discovered that he was willing to own up to a weakness for Billy Joel, even bursting into a complete verse of “Uptown Girl” in a surprisingly pleasant baritone. Fortunately while they were in his car, and not still at the restaurant. He also confessed, when challenged to name his favorite, that he had never watched any anime at all in his life. Or even much regular animation. “I think the huge eyes and free-standing hair are disturbing,” he said. “Creepy. Anything with strange proportions creeps me out. Like Slenderman. Same thing.”

“They are so not the same thing, and now I’m pretty sure we can’t hook up anymore!” Clarke declared with a laugh. “I spent my entire high school career drawing Sailor Moon in my notebooks.”

“Sailor who?”

“That is a dangerous question, my friend. If I thought for one minute you were really curious, you’d never get home tonight.”

“I’m not in any hurry to get home,” he said, taking advantage of the next stop sign to look at her. It was quite clear he had no interest in _Sailor Moon._

“My friend and I are sharing a room,” she said, nodding at the Hilton, which was in the next block, not at all sure what she meant by that.

He pulled into the parking garage, found a place in a dark corner, turned to her and said, “When was the last time you fucked in the back of a jeep?”

“Never?” Clarke said, the fresh dampness in her panties making her quite sure of what she had meant a moment ago. “But, it’s good to expand boundaries, right?”

“Back seat,” he said. 

Once in the back, he slid into the middle of the bench, slouching deeply so that his ass was nearly at the edge and his knees were spread wide to accommodate the length of his legs. He maneuvered her across his lap, facing him. With their jeans undone and slipped down their thighs just enough to be out of the way, he pulled her down, guiding his cock inside her with his own hands while she held onto the seat behind him. Despite her being on top, in this position the power below was all his, but it was also possible for her to kiss him while he fucked into her hard and fast, his thumb pressing firmly on her clit. This time she actually came before he did. 

It was also the first time that they did anything like cuddling, as she curled into him afterwards, still on his lap, his cock still inside. She dropped her head to his shoulder and her hands to his waist while he wrapped his arms around her back. She was more than content in this very awkward position, just wanting to settle into his warmth as her body and the interior of his jeep slowly cooled to the early spring temperatures outside. 

“Clarke,” he murmured, after a time, “You need to move or your knees are going to lock up.”

Her knees had already locked up. 

She ended up half falling off him and into the empty seat while he helped her straighten her legs. After they’d readjusted their clothes, she nestled back into his side, deeply pleased when he wrapped his arm around her again and rested his chin against her hair. “Okay,” he said. “Now you can tell me about Sailor Moon.”

When Raven got home from dinner with some other folks from the conference, the conference that Clarke had completely blown off that day, Clarke and Roan were sitting on Clarke’s bed, propped up against the headboard, watching an episode of _Sailor Moon_ on her computer and eating dry Captain Crunch from individual serve cups. It was all that the hotel store had had on their shelves. 

Clarke walked him nearly all the way back to his jeep because one of the shortest routes to the parking garage was through the now quiet and virtually empty conference center attached to the hotel. He’d promised her on the way down in the elevator to the main lobby that fucking in front of the face-to-face mirrors in one of the empty women’s rooms would blow her mind.

It did.

The restroom was huge, ready to serve the currently empty and dark ballroom down the hall. It was all sand and gold tones, and gilt mirrors lined three of the four walls, just as promised. The mirrors were the kind that reflected the opposite image back endlessly, ever smaller as they vanished into a distant horizon point. 

“What happens if someone walks in?” she asked.

“They get an eyeful of your incredibly awesome tits,” he said, pushing her gently to the edge of the vanity counter. Then he helped her out of her shirt and her bra, standing pressed close behind her as he reached around and fondled her breasts. “See,” he said, his head bent close and his voice even lower than normal, almost rumbling against her ear, holding up her breasts and presenting them to her in the mirror, “gorgeous.”

And it was. The cool air of the empty lower floor barely touched her, trapped as she was between his chest and his hands. Her image reflected back endlessly, her bright hair, almost the same gilt as the frames of the mirrors, caught on his dark jacket. Her pale skin was burnished a rosy gold in the old 1980s era lighting, her nipples slightly darker as he twisted and turned them in his fingers, pulling the tips erect, her hands holding onto his wrists for balance. She met his eyes in the mirror and he smiled, full of of anticipation.

She felt his dick now, hard against her ass, and she leaned forward just a little more, bracing herself on the counter, thrusting her hips back into his crotch. He was very familiar now with the opening on her jeans and he had them pushed down below her ass in seconds, his own jeans open almost immedaitely after that. 

Watching him fuck her from behind, one hand on her tits, one hand between her legs was one of the hottest things she’d ever seen. She was one of the hottest things she’d ever seen. And she knew exactly what she wanted now.

“Harder,” she said, bracing herself more firmly on the counter and meeting his eyes again. “Hard and fast. For as long as you can.”

He could, and for what felt like a wonderfully long time, long enough that she came so hard her knees actually buckled. Two more thrusts and he followed her over.

As it was a restroom, it was easy to clean up. And no one had wandered in.

Later, when she had time to consider it, she was impressed that he already knew that the women’s room on the lower level of the Hilton’s conference center was lined with face-to-face mirrors.

He kissed her at the door to the parking garage and said, “I still don’t like anime.” 

“It’s a massive art form. One episode won’t cut it.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he grinned at her.

“You could…” she stumbled to a halt, horrified by what she’d been about to say. 

“I could what?” He looked down at her, swaying closer and looking at her encouragingly. At least that’s what she told herself.

Telling her super-ego to shut up, and the ghost of Raven to do the same thing, she said, “You could, you know, if you’re ever in Boston for business, look me up. We could try a different one. A different anime, I mean.”

“More anime?” he asked, raising his brows doubtfully. But he didn’t move away.

“Or,” she met his gaze. “I could show you the Bunker Hill museum. It’s in an old building, and the bathrooms in the basement are single person rooms. With locks on the doors.”

“Bunker Hill?” he looked like he wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He also looked seriously impressed.

Clarke aimed for nonchalance. “I had a thing for colonial history when I was in middle school. I’ve done the whole Paul Revere trail a couple of times. I could give you my number. If you were interested.”

He looked at her a minute longer, then he said, “It’s been a couple of years since I was even in Boston. We don’t have any clients there. But,” he fished out his phone, “give me your number.” He handed it to her, the screen open to a new entry in his address book. “If I do come out that way, I’ll let you know. And you have my card. If you ever come back to Minneapolis.”

Clarke didn’t skip on the way back to her room, but only because that would be embarrassing. She strove to keep her face smooth when she walked back in, but one narrow-eyed glare from Raven, and she broke, smirking guiltily.

“You did not. Fuck him. In the hotel,” Raven said, her arms folded across her chest, her voice and her expression dampening in the extreme.

“I did. Twice. If the parking garage counts.” Now Clarke was just smirking. No guilt.

“Fine,” Raven huffed, tossing up her hands. “I can see the appeal. If you’re into muscles and long hair and deep voices and leather jackets in your men.” Raven was also smirking now, though she was still trying not to.

Clarke flopped back down onto her bed and stared happily at the ceiling. “Which I am.”

“Which you are,” Raven agreed, sighing and rolling her eyes in mostly faked exasperation. When her glance came to rest on Clarke again, she sat up straighter. “Tell me you didn’t, Griffin. Tell me.”

“Didn’t what?” Clarke pretended to be completely befuddled.

“Give that man your number.”

“I can’t?” Clarke tried a wheedling smile. “He let me type it into his phone.”

Raven’s cynical glare was deadly. “To be deleted later?”

“Maybe,” Clarke turned away, keeping her voice light but knowing that her face would reveal the tug of disappointment such a thought gave her. “And he did warn me that he never comes to Boston, so. Even if he keeps it, he’ll probably never use it.”

“Say it with me, Clarke. Hookups are not relationships.”

Clarke dutifully repeated the mantra, and then asked about the conference sessions she’d missed. 

She told herself later, as she was falling asleep, that Raven was right. It had been politeness, nothing more. He’d never reach out, even if he didn’t immediately delete her contact info.

But he did. Just as she was boarding their plane the following morning, she got a text from an unknown number. 

“Safe travels. Roan.”

**Author's Note:**

> who puts pizza bagels and captain crunch in the shopping cart  
> who forgot the rule about putting foil in the microwave and subsequently caused a small fire  
> who sleeps naked  
> who sleeps under 3 blankets  
> who has a huge crush on Billy Joel  
> who gets drunk and breaks shit  
> who’s a closeted anime fan  
> who initiates sex at inappropriate times/places  
> who’s afraid of Slenderman  
> what their wedding song will be  
> what their biggest fight was about  
> why they work together
> 
> (a/n: I used the real ages of the actors playing the roles. It just felt better that way. And Clarke Griffin was 17 going on 30 the day she stepped off the drop ship anyway.)


End file.
